Lori Armstrong - Merciless

He gave me that cool-eyed stare.

“Okay, Special Agent Turnbull, why don’t you tell me your suspects? Since you’ve exhausted and discounted all of my theories.”

Shay poured himself a glass of water. He drank, jotted something in his notebook, and then turned it toward me.

Two words were on the paper, in bold letters:

ROLLIE RONDEAUX.

“He’s my only suspect. He had a twofold purpose in killing Arlette. To prove to his son that when he gives an ultimatum about family rivals and alliances, he expects it to be followed. And to dick with Latimer Elk Thunder.

“You told me Rollie warned there would be other dead women on the rez. And a week later his young girlfriend is dead? He doesn’t have an alibi. He suspects his son was sleeping with his girlfriend. He cut off her hand as a symbol of biting the hand that feeds you. He cut out her tongue because she knew that he’d killed Arlette and he suspected she’d blab. And you told me that Rollie is familiar with native herbal medicine. Verline had far more marks from being restrained than Arlette did, which indicated she struggled harder, which I attribute to her being intimately acquainted with her attacker. In each instance, Rollie had means, motive, and opportunity. That puts a check mark next to every single thing on my list, which confirms him as a suspect.” He pointed at me with his pen. “See, Agent Gunderson, you let your personal feelings for him color your judgment.”

“And you let your hatred for him color yours.”

That comment caught him off guard. “I don’t hate him. But I don’t trust him. I know he’s been on the wrong side of the law for years, and everyone always looks the other way. He’s not some harmless old man, Mercy.”

“I never claimed he was.” My frustration with Turnbull’s refusal to consider other suspects definitely put starch in my tone. “While I’m looking elsewhere, you’ll be building a case against Rollie?”

“No need to look elsewhere. Rollie Rondeaux is guilty. I’ve already built the case. We’ve got enough probable cause to ask the assistant U.S. attorney to take this case to the grand jury.”

My mouth dropped open. “How can we possibly have enough evidence to ask for an indictment?”

“We’ll ask for this to be presented to the grand jury for investigation. That way we can serve a warrant to Rollie’s son, Junior Rondeaux. We’ll serve a warrant to the tribal president, Latimer Elk Thunder. We’ll use your testimony regarding what he told you after the first murder victim was discovered but before the second victim turned up. Rollie has firsthand knowledge of herbal medicine, and we can obtain a search warrant for his residence. That should be enough for an indictment and his subsequent arrest to stand trial.”

My stomach acid turned my morning oatmeal into sour mash. I’d have to give sworn testimony against Rollie.

“We’re taking this to the assistant U.S. attorney after morning court adjourns.”

The action had already been decided before I’d entered the building.

Shay’s cell phone pealed. “Turnbull. Yes. What? No, you’re kidding, right?” Pause. He stood abruptly. “When? How the hell is that even possible? No, fuck that. What are our options… Sorry? Yes, sir. No, sir. I understand. Yes, I appreciate the call.”

Shay hung up. He stalked to the window and squeezed his cell phone so hard that cracking plastic echoed in the room.

“What’s going on?”

“Director Shenker was just informed by the Eagle River tribal PD that they arrested Rollie Rondeaux last night on a charge unrelated to our cases. They’re holding him in the tribal jail.”

Confused, I asked, “Which means what?”

“He’s locked up tight. A tribal member, accused of committing a misdemeanor crime on tribal land, falls under the jurisdiction of the tribal court system, not the federal system. We can’t forcibly extradite him until he’s faced a tribal judge and been convicted or acquitted. It’s within the tribal police’s purview to keep Rollie incarcerated until he’s brought before a tribal judge. And since there’s no due process in the tribal court system, Rollie is out of our reach. Indefinitely.”

A jurisdictional pissing match. How fun. “But Rollie has to stay in the tribal jail, right? It’s not like he can post bond and roam around free on the reservation?”

Turnbull gawked at me like I had a screw loose. “That’s hardly the point, Mercy.”

“ You’re missing the point, Shay. Rollie is locked up, out of society. If he is guilty of a couple of gruesome murders, then he won’t be committing any more from behind bars. The residents of the reservation are safe from him and his murderous ways.”

Another arch look from him.

“Is this just about you wanting the collar? Putting another feather in your federal cap so you can get the hell out of this two-bit FBI office and back to a real division office where you belong?” I taunted him.

He meandered toward me, snakelike. I held myself very still, half expecting to see a forked tongue before venom-tipped fangs ripped a chunk out of me.

“Be smart, Gunderson. Be a team player. And if you haven’t figured it out? It’s very much us versus them when it comes to tribal politics and jurisdiction. They’re more than willing to take our help, but they rarely extend the same helping hand. This is a slap down. The tribal police are proving they’ve got all the power.”

I’d hoped I’d left this political jostling behind when I’d left the army. “So what now?”

“Now we see if we can assist Flack and Mested with their sex ring case, involving interstate trafficking of minors, child pornography… You think reading obituaries for a couple of days was bad? What you see and read today will make you question why you became an FBI agent in the first place.”

Too late. I was already questioning it. “Lead the way. Beings you’re the senior agent and all.”

Another scowl. “Give me a minute to find my-”

“FBI-mandated anger management course materials?”

He flashed his teeth. “Back the fuck off, Gunderson. But if you wanna see me in a killing rage? By all means, stick around.”

I’d had enough of his male posturing. I poked him twice on the chest, right below his snappy turquoise bolo tie. “You don’t scare me. You never have. So don’t even fucking try.”

Evidently, the guys in conference room two had heard our exchange. They were mighty quiet when we entered the room.

Good.

I didn’t share my after-work plans with Turnbull. He’d argue. Blather on about the FBI’s role, and mine.

The sporadic bouts of snow on the drive home were irritating. Just enough of the white stuff fell from the sky to cover the ground, but not enough to mask the barrenness of winter fields.

The jail was on the bottom level of the tribal PD building. The space wasn’t much different from any other jail I’d been in, with the exception of the Iraq prisons, which were little more than latrines.

A harried woman around my age inspected me. “Visiting hours ended at five.”

I slid the lanyard bearing my federal ID into the metal tray.

Her gaze dropped to my right hip. “You’re not carrying, are you Special Agent Gunderson?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Sign in, please. Who are you here for?”

“Rollie Rondeaux.”

“Mr. Rondeaux has requested no visitors.”

“He’ll see me.” I smiled. “I’ll wait over here until I’m cleared through.”

The pamphlets in the waiting area shouldn’t have amused me, but they did. How to cope with having a loved one in jail. The importance of family during a prisoner’s incarceration. Advice on how to support the person behind bars, while disapproving of the crime committed.